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Nepal, in a Climate of Contradictions, Prepares to Vote

KATMANDU, Nepal, Jan. 28 - King Gyanendra, the man who sacked the government a year ago, calls for elections but jails political party leaders. The main political parties demand the restoration of democratic rights, but call on voters to boycott the polls.

At least one mayoral candidate has been assassinated by suspected Maoist guerrillas. And in anti-election protests nationwide, dogs have been paraded along the streets with signs dangling from their necks that read, "Vote for me."

So goes the prelude to municipal elections in this ancient Himalayan kingdom on the violent cusp of change.

The elections, scheduled for Feb. 8, will be held a year after Gyanendra, the world's sole Hindu monarch, seized power in what he described as an effort to defeat the Maoists.

The Maoists, who have teamed up with the political parties against the palace, issued a new warning to would-be candidates on Saturday to step down or else. By the deadline to register with the election commission, 3,600 candidates had signed to run for more than 4,100 seats.

[By Sunday, nearly 600 people had withdrawn, leaving a quarter of the municipal races uncontested or without candidates.]

That seemed to be of little concern to Foreign Minister Ramesh Nath Pandey, who said in an interview on Friday that the king had witnessed vast improvements in security and popular enthusiasm for the local polls.

"The country has gone completely in an election mood," Mr. Pandey said. "No one who believes in democracy should oppose it."

None of the main parties are fielding candidates, except for a pro-palace breakaway faction of the Royalist People's Party. Among the candidates is Bhimsen Thapa, running for mayor of Pokhara, a picturesque town more than 100 miles west of the capital.

"I'm a politician," said Mr. Thapa, 45, who reeked of liquor at a midday party meeting in Pokhara. "If you worry, don't work in politics."

On their own, the municipal elections are not terribly important. Mayors and ward leaders are Nepal's equivalent of dogcatcher. But in a country where politics can resemble shadow puppetry, the elections have come to represent a symbolic referendum on the political future of the country. If the elections are seen as credible, they can help the king's standing somewhat. If they come off as a farce, they are quite likely to de-legitimize his reign.

The elections promise to be unlike any others in Nepal history. The Royal Nepalese Army, answerable to the king, is in charge of security. The local officials running the polls ultimately answer to the palace, and the government has offered life insurance policies to the candidates.

Some of the brave-hearted who have chosen to run have been sequestered in government safe houses. The European Union issued a statement on Friday calling the elections "another step backward for democracy." [On Monday, a mayoral candidate from the capital was wounded in a shooting.]

Even a year ago, just after the royal takeover, one could find a number of Nepalis willing to give Gyanendra a chance to restore peace and many more attached to the idea of a constitutional monarchy. Those sentiments are much harder to find today.

The main question now seems to be how much longer the monarchy will last and how much blood will be shed before its demise. The mood is more hostile than what many remember of the popular movement that ushered in parliamentary democracy in 1990.

"The election is a farce and it has no meaning at all," Madhav Kumar Nepal, secretary general of the United Marxist-Leninist Party, said. "It is designed to legitimize the autocratic regime."

Gyanendra assumed the crown in 2001 after his brother King Birendra was killed in a palace shooting apparently committed by Crown Prince Dipendra, Birendra's son, who also died. Ten members of the royal family were killed. By October 2002, the elected Parliament had been sacked.

On Feb. 1, 2005, Gyanendra declared emergency rule, took over the government, jailed hundreds of political activists and imposed restrictions on the press. In the fall, the Maoists declared a unilateral cease-fire. The palace refused to reciprocate.

"The cease-fire was not between the state and the Maoists," Mr. Pandey said. "The cease-fire was between the political parties and the Maoists."

He would not explain further.

During the cease-fire, Maoist killings in the countryside virtually halted as the rebels and the politicians agreed to a détente.

The Maoists gave a nod to the idea of parliamentary politics and agreed to stop attacking party cadres, but said nothing about giving up arms. The politicians said they wished to give the rebels a chance.

"You have to test them," Ram Sharan Mahat, an anti-Maoist with the Nepali Congress Party, said. "If they don't mean what they say, they must be exposed."

Nepalis learned this month that the cease-fire had ended when suspected rebels launched spectacular strikes, first on Jan. 14 at the gates of the Katmandu Valley, and then in the southern border town of Nepalgunj. The Maoists have called for a weeklong national strike starting on Feb. 5.

On a bright Wednesday morning in Pokhara, Shyam Prasad Timilsena, owner of a lighting-fixtures shop, stood near the doorway of his empty store looking for signs of a protest meant to disrupt the visit of Home Minister Kamal Thapa. Mr. Thapa was on the government committee to stamp out the pro-democracy movement in 1990.

Mr. Timilsena said he trusted the king a year ago to bring peace. But why, he asked, had the king failed to respond to the cease-fire? He watched the police walk past the store and said, "Nobody knows where the country is heading."

At a tea shop nearby, Kapila Jalari, a trader who had been invited to hear Mr. Thapa speak, said she was unsure about voting. "Life is risky," she mumbled.

As if on cue, the first black-flag-waving crew of demonstrators stormed the intersection. They called the king a thief.

"Boycott the polls!" they chanted.

In ones and twos, they charged the police line and submitted to arrest. The police, in turn, charged at the crowds. A buffalo and her calf walked up the sidewalk, trying to steer clear. Mr. Timilsena shuttered his shop. A woman pointed her finger at the officers.

The police rushed over to arrest her. Two Buddhist monks watched from the roof of a monastery.

Kamal Giri pulled in crates of soda and prepared to roll down the shutters of his grocery store. No amount of police and army protection could compel him to vote on Feb. 8, he said.

"This is not a fair election," he said. "It's only a show. It's not for the nation and its people."

The day before on that corner, protesters held a mock "felicitation" in anticipation of the home minister's visit. Mr. Thapa is nicknamed Mouse, reportedly for his ability to scurry from one winning camp to another, and at the mock ceremony the protesters honored a pet mouse, garnishing its head with red vermillion.

When Mr. Thapa, who is not related to the mayoral candidate, arrived, it was a full four hours behind schedule. He urged his followers to vote and faulted the parties for undermining the king's democratic intentions.

"They have legitimized the Maoists' ill deeds," Mr. Thapa said. "The parties should not destroy their own homes by joining the Maoists. They should participate in the elections. This election is for restoring peace and strengthening democracy."

In the afternoon, two women from the outskirts of town waited for the minister. They said they had been invited by a local official and told that if they did not show up he would not help them in the event of trouble.

Two burly young men arrived and sat nearby. The women did not want to elaborate.